If they were useless legacy assets, as Bennett always claimed in public, why did he need them transferred so urgently?

“I need time to review this,” I said, sliding the papers back into the envelope.

Celeste’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, sharp stare.

“The offer expires on Friday, Evelyn,” Celeste said, leaning forward.

“We have the fifteen-year anniversary gala next week, and we want this resolved before the press arrives.”

I stood up, gripping my leather clutch until my knuckles turned white.

“You will hear from my counsel,” I said.

I walked out of the dining room, the heels of my shoes clicking against the black marble floor.

The rain was heavier now, drumming against the roof of my cab as it crawled toward the Carlyle Hotel.

My hands were shaking, but not from the cold.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I had not called in three years.

“Julian,” I said when he answered. “I need your help.”

An hour later, I sat in a dimly lit corner of the Carlyle bar, the low music humming in the background.

Julian Mercer walked in, shaking the water from his heavy wool coat.

He was tall, with sharp gray eyes and a tailored charcoal suit.

He sat down across from me and placed his hands on the table.

“Tell me everything, Evelyn,” Julian said.

I handed him the cream-colored envelope.

He put on his reading glasses and studied the document in silence.

I watched his face, looking for any sign of hesitation, but his expression remained unreadable.

“They are trying to strip you of your foundation,” Julian said, his voice low and firm.

“The intellectual property clause is the key. Without your original designs, Bennett cannot secure the expansion loans he needs.”

“Is that why he wants it so badly?” I asked.